Ghosts and Ritewine
by mrsrockatansky
Summary: A side-piece to my main retelling of DA: Origins, The Lion and the Light. Series of one-shots focusing on the last few weeks spent at the doomed fortress of Ostagar, prior to the main battle. Featuring a Cousland mage OC, Florence "Flora" Cousland. Rated M for later content!
1. The Ghosts of Ostagar

For generations, the old Tevinter fortress of Ostagar had guarded against an untold number of Ferelden's enemies. It had repelled Chasind incursions, best Wilder rebellions and thoroughly quashed other malign forces who wished to do the folk of southern Ferelden harm. More recently, it had served as a shield against the Darkspawn massing in the Korcari Wilds. An engineering miracle that builders of the current Age would be hard-pressed to recreate, the fortress stretched out in a stone span across a narrow wooded valley; the twin spires of Asher and Ishal rose like silent guardians out of the crags.

Yet those who called the Hinterlands home also looked upon the old fortress with suspicion, making the Chantry symbol every time that the distant crenellated turrets caught their eye. _Too many battles had taken place there_ , the farmers and traders muttered as they deliberately turned their backs on the Southron hills. _Sure to be restless spirits wandering around, caught on the border between Ferelden and the Wilds. Ghosts with rotting faces patrolling the battlements, empty eye sockets turned in suspicion towards the Wilds._

Several of these rumours had made their way to the forces encamped in the fortress itself. These consisted mostly of the professional core of the Royal Army, led by experienced commander Loghain Mac Tir; King Cailan and his personal guard; a handful of Circle mages, and several hundred Grey Wardens. Although few soldiers came from the Hinterlands themselves, gossip and rumour had inevitably made its way up from the lowlands.

Flora of Herring, Warden recruit of just two weeks, had overhead a particularly dire tale as she collected her silver and blue striped tunic from the laundry tent. One young soldier– northern, from his accent – was gleefully recanting how he had seen a ghostly Mabari strolling through the tents the previous evening. Flora had frozen in place, near-paralysed with fear, until a nearby Templar had shot her a dirty look and instructed her not to block the tent entrance. Almost dropping her clean tunic in the mud, Flora scuttled off through the haphazard scattering of tents towards the recruit quarters.

Evening was beginning to fall; a typically damp and dreary Fereldan autumn night was drawing in. Shadows were starting to creep down the mouldering walls and decrepit spires of Ostagar, and a wide-eyed Flora fancied that she could see ethereal hounds around each gloomy corner. As a fisherman's daughter, she had a superstitious streak the width of the Waking Sea; and harboured a particular terror for _ghosts_.

At last, she scuttled beneath a stone archway draped with ivy and the Warden quarters sprawled out across the courtyard before her. These consisted of a number of large canvas tents, austere and mildewed; each one housing up to forty men on simple bedrolls.

Flora's tent was the one on the end, closest to the smaller tents that housed the senior members of the Order. Grateful that the grooms had already lit the braziers in this part of the fortress, she made her way towards the last tent and ducked inside the canvas flap.

There were about a half-dozen Wardens inside in various states of dress; some sitting on their bedrolls attending to their weapons and others conversing idly with their brethren across the narrow aisles. The inside of the tent smelled of pungent sword resin, unwashed man and mildewed canvas.

Flora bowed her head and tried to enter as unobtrusively as possible. Her bedroll was located at the far end of the tent, laid out neatly beside that of her fellow recruit, Alistair. Yet her attempts to remain subtle were in vain: she had not taken more than three steps across the soggy rush matting before a loud _whinny_ echoed across the tent.

"Here, it's the _one trick pony!"_

Flora was no stranger to being mocked for her limited talents – she had experienced four years of derision at the Circle. Without responding to the snickers and jibes of her brother-wardens she wound her way around the bedrolls; feeling the prickling heat of their stares. There were some that looked upon her with a guarded lust – she was the only female present within their Order – but the majority merely narrowed their eyes with suspicion.

 _She's a spirit healer, Duncan says. I don't like the sound of that._

 _Aye. Spirit is just another another name for demon, if you ask me._

 _Ah well, the Templar boy is keeping an eye on her. Those Chantry lot don't need much of an excuse to stick their swords in a mage._

The mutters and narrowed stares washed over Flora like water over a fish's scales.

 _ **Ignore them.**_

 _I am!_

 _ **Good girl.**_

Finally, she had passed through the gauntlet of their mistrust; reaching the spot beside the canvas wall where her bedroll rested beside that of her brother-warden, Alistair. There was a clear four foot of space between their sleeping mats and the other Wardens, who had clearly rearranged their bedrolls when they learnt the credentials of their new bunkmate.

Alistair was sitting on his own damp bedroll, meticulously sliding a grindstone along the length of a sword resting in his lap. He gave a polite grunt of greeting as Flora approached, flashing a small half-smile as she dropped her fresh-washed tunic onto her own bedroll.

"Alright, Flo?"

"Mm."

Flora pulled a little face as she reached up to unbutton her shirt. Alistair had returned his attention to his sword, but noticed the slight, unhappy nuance of her reply. He glanced up again, eyebrows rising.

"What's wrong? Have the other Wardens been doing that _horse-thing_ again?"

"No- well, _yes,_ but it's not that," Flora replied, continuing to unbutton her shirt.

Alistair coughed and pointedly directed his attention to the ceiling, a flush rising to his cheeks. Flora dutifully turned her back on him as she shrugged her arms free of the loose shirt.

"Do you think there are ghosts in Ostagar?"

" _Ghosts?"_

Alistair let out a derisive snort, wondering if she were joking. Flora shot him an anxious look over her bare shoulder, unfastening the buckle that tied her breeches together.

"I heard some of the soldiers talking about them earlier. Do you think the fortress is… is _haunted?"_

"Possibly," Alistair replied, giving a mild shrug as he returned his attention to the sword in his lap. "I don't really know if I believe in such things myself, but… if spirits and demons are real, why shouldn't ghosts be real, too?"

His answer sounded a fraction distracted, since he was trying his hardest not to look anywhere near his sister-warden's mostly-bare body. Although it was clad in smalls and turned away from him, there was still a _lot_ of naked flesh on display. Risking a quick glance upwards he caught a glimpse of navy leggings being hauled up over slender thighs; and hastily dropped his stare to his sword.

"I hope there are no ghosts here," Flora said glumly, more to herself. "This is… this is just the type of night when they'd be _roaming_ around!"

"How can you be more scared of ghosts than you are _Darkspawn?"_ Alistair demanded, risking another glance upwards.

Flora was now pulling on her boots, fully clothed from the waist down but bare from the waist up. Alistair caught a glimpse of a scattering of freckles across her pale shoulder blades, before swivelling his head away so quickly that he heard his neck give a click of protest.

She was about to reply belligerently that Darkspawn could not get through her shield but she was pretty certain that a ghost _could_ ; when a shout came from across the tent.

"Oi, Alistair!"

It was one of the other Wardens, standing with a small group of his brethren. The man who had spoken gave a wave of his hand, which swiftly turned into a beckon.

"If you've finished playin' nursemaid, come up to the fire with us. Gethin's got a bottle with your name on it, if you're interested in takin' the _ritewine_."

Alistair sat up rigid, resembling nothing so much as a Mabari hearing a kitchen door open in the distance. The look of hope on his face was palpable as he cleared his throat to respond, trying to force some nonchalance into his tone.

"R-really?"

"Aye, lad. Just leave the mage – she'll be fine – and come up with us."

Flora had no idea what _ritewine_ was – she assumed some Grey Warden tradition that Alistair had hitherto been excluded from. She blinked at Alistair, who was quite visibly torn between desire and obligation as he sat on the bedroll.

The opportunity to finally gain some measure of acceptance with his brethren was too tempting for Alistair to miss. Scrambling to his feet, he shot an apologetic and slightly guilty look towards Flora.

"I'll see you up at the Warden campfire, Flo. It's not far."

Flora, feeling her heart throb harder in her chest, responded with an anxious little nod. Then Alistair was vanished with the other Wardens, still grinning in mild disbelief at the invitation.

She finished fastening her tunic, smoothing the thick, striped weave over her thighs. The wind gave a mournful howl outside, testing the strength of the canvas tent walls as it whistled past.

 _Don't be so cowardly,_ Flora told herself sternly as she crept between the abandoned bedrolls towards the entrance. _There aren't really any ghosts here. It's just an old fishwives' tale._

It was a truly miserable autumnal evening – not quite drizzling, but definite damp in the air. The moon was an anaemia disc hidden behind a sulky veil of cloud, and the entire fortress of Ostagar crawled with shadow. The ruins were too erratic and the darkness too deep for the strategically placed braziers to have much effect.

Flora ducked her way out of the tent flap and cast a slightly tremulous look around at her surroundings. Night-time transformed the innocent into the malevolent as skilfully as any illusionist; crumbling statue became ghastly apparition, broken pillar turned into a long-dead soldier clad in full armour. Each shadow was a possible hiding place for the supernatural to lurk; every soft nocturnal sound a potential warning of something advancing _closer._

Heart in mouth, Flora crept through the rows of Grey Warden tents. The senior warden quarters were dark, and she assumed that they too must be up at the bonfires.

One of the braziers on the far side of the stone courtyard had blown itself out, and a well of shadow massed across the cobbles. Flora lifted her hand to summon the golden light to her fingers; and was immediately ordered by a passing Templar to _extinguish this wanton and errant display of magic!_

Clasping her fingers together, she made her way up the crumbling terraces towards the main encampment. The fortress of Ostagar was far more sprawling and extensive than the two spires visible from the Hinterlands would suggest; and Flora knew from experience that it would take at least ten minutes of walking in the shadows to reach the heat and light of the campfires.

Inhaling unsteadily – trying to channel the braveness of her indomitable fisher-father – Flora lifted her chin and continued onwards, clambering up a set of decrepit stone steps beneath the tower of Ishal. As she reached the top, something caught the corner of her eye and she took a reflexive step backwards, almost toppling down the stairs.

It turned out just to be a fragment of sacking blown about by the increasingly gusty wind. Flora clutched at the ivy covered balustrade and swallowed a gulp of damp air, trying to calm herself.

 _It's not a ghost. It's not a ghost. Ghosts aren't real._

 _Are they real?_

 _ **Echoes of the dead do exist, yes.**_

Finding her spirits deeply unhelpful, Flora steeled herself and continued onwards towards a row of tents marked with a Chantry banner thrust into the mud.

Jumping at a stray guy-rope, caught by the wind and flapping loose, Flora let out a small, involuntary sound of fear. Alistair had not quite been correct in his observation earlier: she _was_ afraid of Darkspawn (who wouldn't be?) but she also had absolute faith in the spirits who channelled her own shielding abilities. For as long as Flora's Fade-allies were aiding her, no Hurlock's rusted blade or Genlock's poisoned arrow would penetrate her barrier.

 _A ghost, on the other hand…!_

The Fereldan clouds began to unleash a miserable, thin drizzle; too half-hearted to drive anyone back into their tents, more irritating than anything else. Flora trudged onwards, un-bothered by rain, the corners of her mouth turned unhappily down.

A figure manifested suddenly out of the darkness before her, and Flora cringed back against the damp canvas of a Chantry tent.

"Aah!"

"Relax, Flo- it's only me!"

Alistair stepped out of the shadows, rubbing at the back of his head, slightly awkwardly. His conscience had surmounted his desire to be accepted by his brethren just as they had reached the campfires. Muttering under his breath, he had turned around and trudged back down in the direction of the crumbling terraces to retrieve his sister-warden; who, after all, was a year younger and fresh out of a Circle.

Flora blinked at him, feeling the frantic beating of her heart gradually slow. Alistair smiled at her, and she offered a slightly forlorn and insincere grimace back.

"Flora, are you _really_ scared of ghosts?"

She nodded, sadly; self-conscious at displaying such a personal fear in the midst of the far more crucial stand against the Darkspawn.

Alistair let out a little sigh, then reached out his gauntlet towards her. Flora took it, her fears immediately assuaged as her leather-clad fingers wound together with his.

"Right, let's go."

Hand in hand, the junior recruits made their way up towards the main level of the Ostagar camp; where the rest of the Wardens were gathered about their fires, laughing and drinking in defiance of the darkness.

Alistair glanced back at his sister-warden of two weeks, and thought off-handedly that she was a pretty girl, but smiled far too seldom. There was an air of gravity about Flora of Herring that did not meld well with his own light-hearted levity.

"You didn't need to be afraid of ghosts in _that_ particular section of the camp," he offered, squeezing her gloved fingers gently as they passed the old temple where the Joining ceremonies took place. "The Chantry Mother sleeps in that tent, and her face is terrifying enough to frighten the Archdemon itself out of the sky!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: Oooaaaaa, a wild one-shot appears! Lol look at me making Pokemon references like it's 2016. Anyway, this is just a one-shot that I wrote because I wanted to expand more on the Ostagar chapter of Flo's story. I'll probably do a couple of these chapters, mostly because it's a chance to revisit a time that I covered pretty quickly in my main story (The Lion and the Light). Also it's a time to write about Duncan again, whom I love, haha. So hopefully these little one shots might tide people over while waiting for TLATL sequel! I promise to keep them all SFW, all NSFW will go up on my AO3 account. BTW, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter of my big story, I appreciated them so much, thank you! I replied in the reviews.


	2. The Grey Warden Campfire

The few but mighty Grey Wardens of Ferelden sat gathered around a series of campfires on the highest terrace of Ostagar fortress. The other denizens of the camp – Royal soldiers, Circle mages and Chantry leaders – tended to avoid them; since the old whispers of the Order's treachery had never quite died out. This suited the Grey Wardens well, since many of them had either been ostracised from (or had chosen to leave) common society, and had no desire to mingle with those not of the blood.

Instead, the Grey Wardens preferred their own company, gathering in small clusters and drinking the traditional beverage of _ritewine._ Cloaked in belching smoke from their campfires, they told stories that varied from the sacred, to the profane, to the utterly mundane; from tales of lost loved ones and long-dead comrades, to a colourful account of the talents of a Denerim whore. Warden humour tended towards the darker end of the spectrum; and as the night drew in and the ritewine drained, the jokes gradually grew more and more macabre.

The senior Wardens, several of whom were preoccupied with their own malicious internal whisperings, did not join in with the salacious humour of their men. They sat slightly apart, passing the occasional comment, but mostly focused with a grim singularity on the upcoming battle. From the increasing frequency of Darkspawn attacks, it was clear that the final battle was only weeks away. They alone were aware of the cost of destroying the Archdemon's soul; privately, each senior Warden present had already made their peace with the Maker.

A dwarven Warden with a tattooed face called across the campfire, made bolder by the liquid courage of _ritewine._

"Here, Duncan!"

Duncan had been sitting on a low wooden bench some distance from the flames, inspecting a blunted blade with a frown deepening the lines on his deep tan complexion. He looked up at the mention of his name, dark eyes gleaming and opaque in the firelight; like the watchful stare of a wildcat.

"Aye?"

"D'you think the Wardens'll ever ride griffons into battle 'gain? Like in the old tales."

"Ha, Umrous," came a derisive snort from somewhere in the shadows. "You old drunkard, you'd fall straight off a griffon's back!"

The dwarf let out a responding gurgle of laughter, reaching out with a clumsy hand to turn the frying pan.

"Well, ser dwarf, if the griffons ever decide to return from extinction, I'll let you know," replied Duncan gravely, raising one eyebrow. "You can be the first in line to try one out, if you wish."

"Yeh hear that!" the portly Warden guffawed, slapping his knee and wheezing. "The Warden-Commander _himself_ is signin' me up for the _tactical griffon squadron!"_

Just then, two figures manifested from the darkness; the taller quickly dropping the hand of the smaller as they approached the campfires. Duncan glanced sideways as they came near, his eyes still sharper than most even after five decades of use.

"Alistair, Flora," he said, raising his voice over the hiss of spitting fat from the sausages. "Here, young recruits, sit."

There was a soft, almost unnoticeable ripple of discontent amongst the other Wardens as they watched these two inexplicably favoured recruits sit on the flagstones at Duncan's feet. The lad – Alistair – had too handsome a face to be taken seriously as a soldier; while the lass was two coppers short of a silver – rumour had it, she couldn't even write her own name when signing the join-up papers. One Warden had overhead two Templars discussing the new mage-recruit in derisive tones; dismissing her as a threat to _anything,_ let alone Darkspawn.

Over the weeks, several theories had arisen amidst the Warden ranks as to _why_ these two recruits seemed to be so preferred. The boy had a well-bred accent, and could possibly have been the bastard of someone important; but the girl spoke with the soft, slightly hoarse tones of a northern commoner, and lacked all the mannerisms of nobility. A growing majority voiced their suspicion that she might be their Warden-Commander's lover - _Rivainis were known to fancy redheads_ – but those who knew Duncan best knew the unlikeliness of this. The senior warden was not adverse to taking a partner into his tent on occasion; but not one a full three decades younger.

"Alistair," said Duncan, as the blond recruit stared off in pensive reverie. "How did the Chantry Mother respond to our request?"

"Oh," said Alistair, who had been envisioning himself drinking ritewine and joining in the bawdy jokes with his brethren. "She said that they can't delay the morning hymnal service for anyone, not even the Grey Wardens. Said that the Maker would be _deeply displeased_ if He had to wait an extra hour before hearing the Chant!"

Duncan let out a sigh, draining his bottle of ale and letting it rest in a low dip in the ancient flagstones.

"It would be far easier if the Chantry just agreed to work _with_ us, rather than engage in this pettiness," he murmured, with a soft rumble of regret to the words. "If the king can let go of old grudges, why can't they?"

Alistair gave a cheerful shrug, already eyeing the sausages frying noisily in the pan wedged over the fire. There were six of them, their skins blackened from ash and near-about to split.

"Don't know. I swear to the Maker, I didn't sass them!"

Duncan narrowed his eyes down at his young recruit, pursing his lips.

"I should _hope_ not, Alistair. Now is not the time to antagonise our allies."

There followed a long silence, and then a hiss as a volley of crimson sparks surged upwards into the darkness. The dwarf Umrous reached out to grab the pan from the flames, then cursed as his clumsy lunge knocked it sideways; deeper into the bone-white heart of the fire.

"Ah, _Stone's Balls!"_

Flora, who had been sitting cross-legged and quiet beside Alistair, glanced up. She had not spoken a word since they arrived; clearly not accustomed to idle socialising.

Leaning forward, she stretched out an arm towards the flames. A gleaming gold sheath formed around her sleeve, coating her fingers in a thick, almost waxy sheen. The conversation and bantering of the other Wardens died off as they turned their heads to watch, eyebrows drawing together with wary curiosity.

With skin protected from the heat by the clinging lustre of her magic, Flora's hand passed through the flames as though they were as water. She grasped the handle of the pan- which had thankfully not upended its contents into the coals – and drew it carefully out of the fire. Not wanting the dwarf to burn himself, she placed the pan on the flagstones and slid it gently towards him with her booted toe.

The dwarf took the pan by the handle, shooting Flora a suspicious look.

"Alright, boys, who wants a sausage? And I _ain't_ talkin' about the ones in your drawers!"

Duncan turned down the offer of food – there was little that appealed to the taste-buds in his tainted condition – but Alistair accepted eagerly, having not eaten for several hours.

He was about to take a large bite when he happened to look sideways, and saw Flora still sitting patiently with an empty plate. A quick glance down back at the fire provided an explanation. A final sausage had just been placed into the pan to fry, a sad and slightly misshapen afterthought of raw meat.

"Here you go, Flo," said the fundamentally kind-hearted Alistair, after a moment. "You can return the favour once yours is done."

He broke his sausage in half and gave one end to his solemn-faced sister-warden, who mumbled her thanks as she took it gratefully. From behind them, Duncan gave a muted sound of approval.

"Here, Dora?"

Flora looked up, fascinated and appalled by this mangling of her name. The speaker was the blunt-speaking, roughly-shaven swordsman known as _Stene,_ who had originated the hated _one-trick pony_ nickname.

"It's Flora," she replied, and the warrior looked astonished that she had corrected him.

" _Flora."_ He somehow managed to make her common, northerner's name sound simplistic and foreign on his tongue. "You're just a healer, right?"

Duncan looked up, but the warning writ across his hawkish features was half-lost in the evening shadow.

Flora dropped her eyes to the remains of her sausage, knowing instinctively what was to follow. The same question had dogged her through years at the Circle, exclaimed by her instructors, demanded by her fellow apprentices; even hissed at her by suspicious Templars.

"So why can't you cast from any other school of magic then, eh?"

"Dunno."

"Have you _ever been_ able to cast from any other school of magic?"

"No."

"Can you kill a Hurlock with your magic?"

 _ **Such useless queries! Don't get upset, child, you should be used to this by now.**_

Flora shook her head, morosely. Stene opened his mouth once more and then a stinging voice lashed across the campfire, sudden and shocking as the cracking of a whip.

" _Enough!"_

Duncan rose to his feet, embers of anger gleaming in the coal-dark depths of his eyes. His shadow, broad and augmented by the armour of a senior officer, fell across those gathered about the campfire. Stene went abruptly silent, amputating the next question before it could emerge.

The Warden-Commander glanced down at Flora, who was still sat wide-eyed at his feet. He dropped a hand to her shoulder, resting his fingers gently on the striped material of her tunic.

"Walk with me, young sister."

Flora scrambled obediently to her feet, wondering whether she was in trouble.

Warden Stene let out a little snort as this most junior and senior of pairings disappeared into the shadows together.

" _Told_ you Duncan was knockin' her off," he commented, bluntly. "He's gone and took her back to his tent for a quick shag"

"Duncan is _not…_ doing _that,"_ retorted Alistair indignantly, reaching out to turn the second pan around in the flames. "He wouldn't."

In fact, Duncan had taken Flora only a short way off into the camp – just beside the tent emblazoned with Mac Tir's livery – and then turned to face her, his voice low and earnest. Flora stood before him, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

"Young sister," he repeated, dark eyes anchoring her pale, confused stare. "Do you remember what I said to the First Enchanter when I conscripted you?"

Flora nodded: the words were emblazoned into her mind, as though branded into the soft matter of her brain.

"' _This girl has a rare and powerful gift from the Maker_ ," she repeated, dutifully.

"' _And her talents are wasted in the Circle,'_ " finished Duncan, softly. _"'Out in the world, she can do great good; and the restriction of her abilities is no hindrance if what she_ can _do is so potent.'"_

The Warden-Commander gave a slow nod, his eyes moving over Flora's solemn, strangely familiar features.

"I would have recruited you based on that shield alone," he said, blunt as ever. "But when I read in the Templar notes that you had an uncanny ability to _neutralise_ toxins, I did harbour a hope that you might be able to do the same with the Blight-sickness."

Flora had indeed demonstrated her ability to do such, removing the taint from a wounded soldier on her third day at the fortress. She swallowed, an odd sensation brewing deep in her belly. It was one wholly unfamiliar to her, a peculiar warmth that filled her lungs akin to her own strange magic.

 _What is it?_

 _ **Pride, child.**_

"Never forget that I chose you for exactly who – and _what -_ you are, Flora of Herring."

Flora, who had never received such explicit praise in her life, gazed up at the senior warden in enthralment. Moments later, an extremely uncharacteristic beam crept across her face; the full mouth that she had inherited from neither one of her parents curling upwards in a rare smile.

Duncan smiled kindly back at her, a flicker of curiosity passing across his prematurely lined features.

"You remind me a great deal of someone, little sister," he said, in a low voice that came from many miles away. "I wasn't sure before now, but…hm. Where did you say _Herring_ was, again?"

"The north coast," she replied in a distant voice, still repeating his earlier words in her head.

"Bann Loren's land?"

"No, in the teyrnir of Hiver – sorry, _Highever._ Hiver is what we call it."

Duncan glanced at Flora once more; a long and appraising stare that took in the dark red hair, the distinctive grey eyes and the fine-hewn cheeks that almost certainly did not come from the peasant stock that she naively claimed.

"Hm," he said at last, keeping his reservations to himself. "Let's get back to the fires, young sister. I fancy that I _do_ have an appetite, after all."

As they approached the campfire, Duncan slowed his pace, causing Flora to stumble to a halt behind him. There were far more silhouetted figures gathered around the fire than there had been previously, and one of their number was clad in resplendent golden armour that reflected the flickering flames like a mirror. No ribald humour or bawdy jokes rose from the gathered Wardens; technically they owed fealty to nobody, but it was instinct to bow their heads in the presence of royalty.

"Ser Duncan!" announced King Cailan, his eyes shining with boyish enthusiasm even at this late hour. "I have need of my little shield-mage!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: So this chapter expands a little more on why Flora is so continually obsessed with Duncan, remaining so long after his death. He was the first one to explicitly name her strange form of magic as a gift from the Maker, thus transforming her from embarrassment to asset.

Just as a little side-note, I commissioned an image to use as the cover-image for my sequel to the Lion and the Light. I posted it on my new commissions-only tumblr, thelionandthelightartwork . It's so beautiful and gorgeous, by the talented Louminx who I actually think depicts Flo better than any other artist I've commissioned.


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